


To This Day

by RurouniHime



Series: Day series [3]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Breakfast in Bed, Declarations Of Love, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Hotels, Love, M/M, Romance, Undressing, Vows, Wedding Night, Wedding Rings, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-08
Updated: 2012-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:20:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RurouniHime/pseuds/RurouniHime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Eames doesn’t remember the words, though he does recall his vows, vivid sense-memory rather than sound.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	To This Day

**Author's Note:**

> So in the prequel, I took Arthur's proper wedding day away from him. Ergo, I had to give him his wedding _night_. ^_~ 
> 
> And I really do need to trust Eames when he decides to go all philosophical, because if there's anyone who can swing that and smut simultaneously, it's him.
> 
> I do not dream big enough for the Inception universe to belong to me or make me any money. Title borrowed from the quote by Gene Perret, featured at the end of the story.

_You’re nothing short of my everything. ~ Ralph Block_

~~~

They fall through the ornate double doorway after midnight, Eames laughing, Arthur doing his damnedest to kiss him. Closing the doors is no trouble; Eames collapses against them, then turns Arthur around, hitches him up, and presses him bodily to the wall right beside the entryway. And lets himself be silenced.

For a few minutes.

“Hello, Mr. Eames,” he murmurs over Arthur’s mouth, and grins.

“ _Dar_ ling.” Arthur’s lazy American syllables belie the recent lack of oxygen; the humor slides from that single word as if it has been doused.

And they both start snickering.

Arthur hasn’t actually taken his name, and Eames will never, ever allow such a thing. ‘Mr. Eames’ owes too many things to too many unsavory people, and though he has confidence— well placed— in Arthur’s ability to defend himself, he refuses to do anything to expedite that particular hazard.

Marrying Arthur, though, was absolutely necessary. And Eames will go to the grave before he takes it back.

It’s funny now, bodies taut together against the wall, Arthur arching to draw himself higher, Eames easing the way with hands on his hips, the salty flavor of sweat and the sweet kick of frosting under tongues. It was less funny erupting out of dream-share, scrambling out of chairs and out of abandoned storage rooms and into their suits, switching vests when they realized they’d got it wrong, listening to Ariadne shout down the hall about a missing lavender pump, the rapid clack of Sonya’s heels on the pavement as she ran down two separate cabs for everyone, the phone ringing off the hook, _where the hell are you all, everyone else is already here!_ in Cobb’s seething tones, feeling Arthur’s fingers through his hair as he pushed it into submission and his own fingers in Arthur’s, hearing Yusuf curse about possible tails behind them in the street. 

Stumbling out of the cab and through the door and up to a man with a minister’s license and a raised eyebrow.

Eames doesn’t remember the words, though he does recall his vows, vivid sense-memory rather than sound. He remembers his suit hanging oddly, maybe a button done up wrong somewhere, his collar damp with the trickle of sweat, and feeling so, so unkempt despite the magnificent (and lifted) Joseph and Feiss, because Arthur as he said _his_ vows, Arthur, dressed in the same scant five minutes— Arthur was perfect and sharp and gorgeous, and so striking in his smile alone. In the way his right hand curled around Eames’ left, nothing like the manner in which he holds a gun because Arthur has a certain way he holds each thing that is dear to him, and this is how he holds Eames.

But the _suit_. Even for Arthur, it is spectacular: crisp, sharp lapels and pleats and dark silver vest, embroidery glinting like water, coattails to mid-thigh, black and white silk ascot loosened just enough to drag the eye right to it—

 _Everyone_ had been looking at Arthur, god knows.

Eames peels him out of it piece by piece, those that Arthur does not shrug off, a sinuous roll of his shoulder for the jacket before it catches halfway down one arm, the other locked tight round Eames as he takes his fill of Arthur’s mouth. Angles Arthur’s familiar heat closer against his body and relishes the fact that he’ll never be full.

Arthur gets the rest of his jacket off by himself, with jerky movements so far from cultured that the brevity of them is what imprints. That and Arthur’s arms winding back around him with desperate speed once it’s done, Arthur’s hand woven firmly through his hair, dislodging stray grains of rice and spoiling what he once arranged so intently, Arthur’s breath surging against his own.

“Damn _it_ —” Arthur utters, and clasps Eames’ face abruptly with both hands, holds him still. And _kisses_ him. Long and deep and graceless and—

And.

Eames yanks his own jacket open and shrugs out of it. Drops it from body and mind.

He can’t do this against a wall. But god, he wants to, wants to drag Arthur’s perfect, expensive pinstriped trousers off him and hitch him higher, and push him right to the brink and then keep him there for as long as they both can take it, because Arthur— god, Arthur—

“ _Married_ you,” Arthur breathes against his lips. He sounds in awe, bewildered even, a child in full grip of wonderment.

Eames has to laugh. “Still time to forge a pre-nup.”

Arthur hits him on the shoulder with his fist and soothes it in the same motion. “Be quiet,” he murmurs, and finds his mouth again, and reaches down for Eames’ hand under his thigh, the simple gold wedding band. 

He has yet to go a full minute without touching it. Eames thinks his heart might be in danger of combusting over that fact.

“You. Are so.” Arthur is short of breath after _that_ kiss, but his sentence breaks are precise. His hands trail over the remainder of Eames’ suit, his rumpled vest, dark over light, gangster chic, and now that Eames knows what this look does for Arthur, he’s going to be buying a whole lot more of these suits. Yes, buying; for Arthur, he’ll do it.

“So not holding a candle,” he finishes with a smile, and gives Arthur’s ascot a gentle tug.

Arthur makes a sound, a fucking _growl_ , and rolls his hips up, off the wall into Eames, bracing with his shoulders like he wants to dirty these luxurious suits up, get them absolutely filthy right the hell here not two feet from the hallway, and Eames—

Well, fuck. 

He pushes back, presses Arthur to the wall and takes him to task for it all, tonguing his mouth open and diving in, listening to the sounds it elicits, the gentle whine deep in Arthur’s throat, the giving over. Arthur hangs off him like a vine, arms draped over his shoulders and fastened tight, one hand clasped to his nape, humid and firm, thumb kneading at the tendon running down the side of his neck. God, he _wants_ Arthur, more than he’s ever wanted anybody, more than he’s ever wanted, full stop.

He’s not entirely sure he can have what it is he wants, not tangibly. He’s ninety-nine percent certain it’s not actually a physical thing.

Arthur pushes out of the kiss in the middle of another sound, and Eames eases him down the wall to his feet again. Tugs his own tie loose and tosses it who the hell knows where, then follows Arthur’s hands up to the black and white silk and together, they relieve Arthur of one more obstacle. It’s a good thing Eames has dressed and undressed so many times, because he can’t concentrate on mundane details like clothing when he’s too busy reaffirming Arthur’s flavor over his lips and under his tongue, and Arthur is— no help at all, he’s _fumbling_ it, his fingers keep skidding, catching, carving a little deeper into Eames’ heart with each twitch, and if Eames had the presence of mind, he would pull back and watch it happen, witness the lack of control and fall in love with it, too.

He’s not that good of a multi-tasker.

Arthur grabs his shirt by the lapel, wrenching a button free as he turns out of Eames’ shadow and tugs him around toward the rest of the suite. The walls are creamy and warm, the molding disgustingly intricate, the drapes willowy in the breeze from open floor-to-ceiling windows. The air blowing through is fresh, night-flavored, and somewhere in the middle of all the frippery, there’s a bloody fridge full of bloody truffles and a bloody, bloody Muscat that Eames used to be incredibly excited about, but now he can’t remember _why_ , why, when he can have it all the same in eight hours, once he’s got Arthur flung down sweaty across a mattress much bigger than anything they’ve ever slept or fucked on, heaving and sated and smiling because he just can’t stop anymore. That’ll be the time for truffles; he can coax them past Arthur’s lips with one hand and twine Arthur’s fingers with the other.

He drags Arthur’s hand up to his mouth and kisses the heel of it, feels Arthur’s fingers uncurl against his cheek, tracks over to Arthur’s palm instead and pays full attention as he presses his lips there, indulges in scent and heat and the way Arthur’s breath rate picks up. They are standing so close Eames can feel every exhalation.

“You going to make love to my hand all night?” In some other world, it might be sardonic, but Arthur is fast running out of energy for all the extras tonight, Eames can hear it. Feel it in the body beneath his hands. Taste it in the way Arthur’s scent is changing right there against his mouth.

“Hush, love,” he affirms mildly, kissing the dips between Arthur’s fingers one by one. “The two of us would like to be alone.”

Arthur snickers again. It’s a lovely sound coming from him. Eames so rarely hears it. “Just so long as the rest of me gets a turn.”

Eames flicks a lingering rice grain from just over Arthur’s ear, then manhandles him around again— or rather, Arthur goes along with it because Arthur is kind and accommodating like that— and pulls him back toward the bed until he can fall down on top of it, mussing that pristine duvet with all its perfect creases. He tugs Arthur down on top of him, bracketing lean hips between his thighs and humming at Arthur’s weight as it settles. “So,” he says, their faces a mere inch apart and Arthur’s lips quirking just so, “any requests?”

“Carte blanche,” Arthur says without hesitation. He has a perfect French accent, damn him, even with such a short phrase; his tongue slips around the words, sounds like it’s fondling them. He raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“Apéritif,” Eames decides, and sets to, rolling Arthur beneath him and popping buttons out of holes one by one, working his way down Arthur’s chest until the only button left is the one on his trousers. He leaves that one alone for now, teasing fingertips over it firmly enough to feel Arthur’s shudder.

“My naked body is an alcoholic beverage now?” He’s managing the mocking, but he has to work at it. It makes Eames insanely smug.

“A shockingly rare vermouth, my dear.” He proceeds to sample his beverage of choice, trailing the flat of his tongue in the buttons’ wake, sliding the crisp ice-white fabric of Arthur’s shirt out of his way. Arthur’s chest is uniformly pale, rising and falling steadily now. There is the hint of his cologne, always just enough to tantalize, make Eames turn as he passes and try to catch the scent again. Now he can run the gamut, though, and he does, Arthur’s hands tracing gently over the skin of his face, his neck, through his hair as he goes. Eames dips a little to the side somewhere around Arthur’s navel, then back again just underneath it. He rests his fingers on the waistline of those trousers.

“No.” Arthur cranes up a little, all in the abs, for god’s sake, because both of his hands are busy with Eames’ shirt. He’s much steadier now: Arthur’s quite skilled at undressing Eames, they’ve made sure of that. He gets the shirt entirely off before sinking back down to the mattress and releasing a short sigh. Suddenly he’s smiling, top teeth showing. “Alright. Carry on.”

“Keep calm,” Eames murmurs, just because. And because maybe he might need it.

He knows it’s not a question of what they’d rather do, but of what they’d rather do first. And that, coupled with the knowledge that they—

 _They._ For the rest of their lives.

He shakes, and watches Arthur’s eyes sharpen. Arthur rises up on one elbow, already reaching, cupping Eames’ nape and squeezing.

“Eames,” he murmurs, then goes silent. Finally, cracking a tension that shouldn’t be here anyway— “S’my wedding night. I want my husband here for it.”

Mentally as well as physically, then. How Arthur laughs without actually laughing, Eames will likely never figure out.

Arthur clearly doesn’t want to think too much. The funny thing is, that’s all Eames wants to do: think, about Arthur, about what he can do to make Arthur stumble all over his own control and ultimately abandon it, drop it to the side and just… be. Speak. Cry out and say his name and hiss it, whisper it, sob it, _be Arthur_ in the very ways he has been all day, the ways nobody else gets to see.

Eames has been redefining ‘Arthur’ for years, not realizing until recently that he is the only one witnessing these little details. The only one allowed to see.

“I’m sorry, darling,” he says quietly. “Got a little caught up.”

After a second’s silence, Arthur says, sober and quiet and intent, “Eames, you’re allowed.”

“Get these off, shall we?” He undoes the clasp of Arthur’s trousers at last, working a little to free both hooks and the button. Arthur watches his progress, the smile vanished from his face. In its place is a strange sort of heat, not arousal as much as… as… Eames doesn’t know which word to put to it. But he understands it. He keeps his own eyes on Arthur’s face as he divests him of his last garments, notes the flare of his nostrils, the quick, low sweep of eyelashes against his cheeks.

“Come here.” Arthur trails two fingers down the inky splash of words just across Eames’ right hip and curls them into the waist of his trousers this time, pulling gently. Eames sits upright, swings one knee outside Arthur’s legs for better balance and angles his hips forward. Arthur’s hands do shake a little as he unhooks this button and downs the zipper, and then he traces fabric just for a second, almost wistful, as it parts over Eames’ front. 

Eames drops slowly over Arthur, bracing with his fists either side of Arthur’s head, and looks him in the eye. “What are you thinking?”

Arthur seems to be thinking about him, if the way he studies Eames’ face is anything to go by. His hand folds warm and low over the arc of Eames’ hip, insinuating itself between cloth and skin. “Sturdy surfaces.”

Eames grins down at him. Arthur’s lip curls in answer.

The bed certainly has such a surface, a thick, ornate headboard that doesn’t move in the slightest when Eames reaches back with one arm and shoves the weight of his body against it. No creaks, no cracks. No wobble. Arthur kicks his trousers off the bed and pulls economically at Eames’ again, which means he has to readjust, slide down onto his side until they’re gone. But he doesn’t mind: it gets Arthur between him and the headboard in the end, and when Eames regains his knees, they’re both as naked as they can be and in the right position.

Almost. It’s Arthur’s turn to swing his leg over, to lower himself easily onto Eames’ lap. And to stop there. He reaches back with one hand, gives the rim of the headboard a test grip.

“Wood’s cold,” he says. It’s so Arthur. And Eames would be an absolute failure if he didn’t respond in his own native tongue.

“Which wood, dar—” Only Arthur sighs and cuts him off almost before he’s started, shutting him up so very effectively with that one way he has of kissing, the one where he gets to know Eames’ entire mouth intimately all over again, the one Eames doesn’t even refer to as ‘kissing’ because it’s more like being shagged in every nerve ending above his waist simultaneously as well as several below, and it leaves him aroused like no other thing _ever_ has, can, or will. It was, and will continue to be, an excellent argument for tumbling head over arse into Arthur’s orbit, kicking up his feet, and remaining there for the rest of time.

And then Arthur shifts forward, uses his super powers for evil in an extremely blatant way, and resettles so tightly against Eames that there’s only one place left to go in order to get closer. 

He runs his hands down Arthur’s sides, from just under his arms to the span of his upper thighs, and noses into another kiss. This one is arrestingly far from the other: slow and lasting, yes, but also tender. Assuring.

Arthur passes a packet between them, because Arthur is always prepared, unbelievably prepared. Eames kisses his hand again before reaching down, shifting Arthur just a little, and opening him up with his fingers. 

Arthur mouths along his jaw as he does it, smooth brushes and languid nips with his teeth. He kisses the hollow just under Eames’ chin, exhaling tightly over his skin as Eames adds another finger, but doesn’t stop. Keeps going to the other side of his face, swiping his thumb across the expanse he just left. Nodding finally into the curve of Eames’ throat after the third finger.

Three years of nothing but each other, no one else. They’ve been clean for ages, and Eames is thankful for the privileges of that tonight, from the center of his soul. He stops it all, eases into Arthur gently, and gets a lengthy indrawn breath and utterly blown pupils for his efforts. Arthur catches his eye and leans slowly backward until his back rests flat against the headboard, his hips flush with Eames’, all the heat and the damp and the tiny motions of breathing, heart beating— he can _feel_ Arthur’s pulse. Arthur’s stomach hitches a little; his fingers clench into a brief, tight fist against Eames’ shoulder blade, and relax again.

Dig in, once.

Eames rises up, rolls his hips, and Arthur uses the headboard to return it, a counter rhythm they fall into easily, and slowly, and patiently, as if they have all the time in the world to get around to the subtleties. Arthur’s eyes never drop, never leave his, not for entire minutes, not even when Eames changes it up and Arthur shivers, and heaves himself up with a bunching of muscles, hitches their hips even tighter, shifts the angle and brings a wordless sound bursting out of Eames before he bites at Eames’ lips. He snatches a kiss and lets it descend into a mere press of mouths, unable to hold onto it. He scrabbles, slides Eames’ hand from his side down between their bellies. 

Eames cradles Arthur’s head to focus him, and kisses his cheek right beneath his eye. Gives it one more agonizing second. “Hold on now, love.”

It’s not his voice, not that he recognizes. Doesn’t matter; he turns them, lifts Arthur with a burst of adrenaline and presses him flat on his back across lush blankets, pulls out and bends down, closes his mouth over him instead. Arthur arches hard, clamping hands onto Eames’ shoulders, a cry breaking half out of his mouth. The rest is lost in the tremor of Arthur’s hips and thighs, the clench of his fingers too tight through Eames’ hair. He knows Arthur has lost control now because Arthur _never_ pulls his hair hard enough to hurt.

It’s fantastic.

Eames gets him right to the brink, that unsteady, frenzied undulation that rides Arthur more than Arthur rides it, shivering, skin rolling with gooseflesh, and then, _then_ , he releases Arthur, returns to his mouth and enters his body again all in the same upward surge, and Arthur chokes, “Love you, _god_ —” right next to his ear.

The loss of control this time is Eames’, completely.

The rhythm that was falls apart. Eames thrusts hard, jagged, feeling the tug in each muscle. He drags Arthur closer. Arthur wraps around him and presses his fingers into the patterns of Eames’ tattoos, strokes with his thumbs in time, follows the tracery down Eames’ side with his left hand, _somehow_ , all the way down the small of his back to where his newest design ends, and Eames wouldn’t know for sure because he’s not looking, but he would swear Arthur never drifted outside the lines, and how the bleeding fuck does he _do_ that? Arthur stretches further, finds where he’s headed with perfect efficiency, and there is no apology in word or movement for what he does next.

Eames comes with Arthur’s mouth on his and Arthur’s fingers in him, and it snaps all of his muscles taut and lasts for ages. He nearly misses it when Arthur follows, heaving upward against him with enough force to shift them both, arching, heel pressing so hard into Eames’ calf that there will be a bruise. The already slanted kiss breaks, giving way to sound. Eames has no idea who is responsible for what, just that he’ll remember the exact resonance of it for years.

He can taste Arthur’s sweat on his lips, over his tongue. Across the surface of his teeth. When he can move, he turns, slow with it all, collapses into a kiss to Arthur’s side, just under his arm where his ribs rise and fall beneath his skin. 

Arthur curls around him with his other arm, a sheltering embrace. He presses his nose to Eames’ temple and breathes unsteadily there for many seconds.

It’s too hot afterward to do much more than lie side by side catching their breath, staring up at the ceiling. Eames sees dots, little flickering specks darting in and out before his eyes. And still, he can’t bring himself to let go of Arthur’s arm, to unwind his fingers from between Arthur’s and let the breeze pull all that sweat and heat and discomfort away. Arthur shows no signs of relinquishing his grip anyway: the pressure of his ring is vibrant against the sensitive insides of Eames’ fingers.

After a moment that… could well be an hour, Arthur lifts a hand and covers his eyes. “Married you,” he whispers again.

This time the tone is of utter contentment. Arthur raises their joined hands and kisses Eames’ knuckles. 

“Where’re we at?” He’s slurring, drowsy and sated, but not nearly as sated as he’s going to be.

Eames locates the tasteful little clock on the bed’s only side table. “Almost half one.”

“Half one,” Arthur murmurs, to himself. For a moment, Eames thinks he’s going to drop off. Then his hand drifts away from his forehead and reaches, seeking across Eames’ chest. Eames gives him what he wants and Arthur’s fingers go immediately to the wedding band settled low on Eames’ ring finger. He rolls over, stretching half on top of Eames, and bends to kiss his mouth. 

“Good,” he breathes against Eames’ lips.

And sets about raising the temperature again.

**

In the morning, the sun lights the room in buttermilk-yellow, edgeless and glowing. Arthur kisses Eames awake over the course of ten minutes, then folds into it for another ten. Eames drowsily gets his bearings. Thinks, _Yes, this I could get used to._

_This, I am already used to._

Before they order breakfast, Arthur fucks him, smooth and opulent, on their sides and Eames ends up with a handful of sheets that will never be unwrinkled again, Arthur bent over his shoulder, tonguing his mouth stupid and compliant while their fingers tangle together on the pillow. He’s sore when he gets out of bed, when he pulls his trousers on to answer the door, when he tips the waiter, when he brings the cart back through the front room to the bedside. Arthur rises up onto his knees stark naked and urges Eames’ trousers off him again, then serves them pancakes in the middle of the mattress, with strawberries and maple syrup, turkey sausage, and orange slices that burn both their lips with the citric acid.

In retrospect, all those bruising kisses were so worth it.

“Mm,” is all Eames can think to say, smiling against Arthur’s lips.

“Hard time topping this next year,” Arthur agrees.

At this second, as Eames nibbles on Arthur’s mouth, Cobb has a Glock, five clips, and the only other penthouse key in the room below them, with a perfect line of sight to the elevator; Yusuf is busy bouncing echoes of them around cyberspace, and Ariadne is dropping their names and credit card numbers in restaurants and bed-and-breakfasts the next city over. And it’ll never last. On Monday morning, their month-long honeymoon is going to start out a lot like dodging an irate mark in a taxi hell-bent on reaching the airport, but for now, they’ve got this.

~~~

_Our wedding was many years ago. The celebration continues to this day. ~Gene Perret_

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> For your enjoyment...
> 
> [Arthur's tux](http://tuxedo.menswearhouse.com/preStyledLookDetail.do?style=all&id=13&order=0&occasion=wedding) and [Eames' tux](http://tuxedo.menswearhouse.com/preStyledLookDetail.do?style=all&id=20&order=1&occasion=wedding). Rawr, boys.
> 
>  **ETA:** ...and then filthy_bunny took those thar suits and made me [**this lovely manip!**](http://eames-arthur.livejournal.com/1513594.html?thread=5785466#t5785466) Mmmmm.


End file.
